Crisis Memes - 1 - Tue 05 Aug 2256 08:00

The airtight door of the Sector 15-D-11 common room was buckling, and men with clubs and hammers would soon break through it. The half-crazed woman who had crawled out of the air duct the previous day had told them what to expect when
that happened.

Only two weeks to fall into savagery, thought Ben. How long will it take to climb back to civilisation?

The sound of the last impact was still echoing in the cold, empty rooms and corridors behind them.

“We should give them the food,” Alistair said.

In the dim glow of the emergency lighting, Ben looked at his brother the corporate competitor, the high flyer. He had expected something better - a negotiating strategy, or maybe some subterfuge to grab a position of influence over the mob outside. He was disappointed, and realised he was going to have to stay in charge.

“We can’t leave ourselves with nothing to eat.”

Another hammer blow fell upon the door.

Breathing rapidly, heart racing, Ben felt his body being denuded of oxygen, and a sense of unreality crept across his mind. He felt the crash as much as he heard it - almost as if the hammers were landing directly on his head – or rather inside his head, sending a shock wave of panic through his body. He recognised the symptoms of an anxiety attack. But this wasn’t the boardroom of R-TINTEL. He wasn’t fighting against staff redundancies or budget cuts. This was real danger. Fight or flight.

“But they’ll be armed,” Alistair said, “We have nothing...”

“Leave this me,” said Bruce, the youngest of the three McLaren brothers. Then speaking louder, so the rest of the group could hear him: “We can take them. They’ll be cautious at first, and probably just as scared as we are. Use anything you can find as a weapon, even if it’s just a piece of plastic - they won’t know the difference between that and a steel bar in this gloom. Jump them the minute they come through. Hit them on the head and if they don’t go down, grab their hair and kick them in the balls till they scream. It never fails.”

Ben felt a mixture of relief and fear. Relief as he felt the burden of leadership shift towards Bruce: the ex-Marine; the fighter; the Mad McLaren. Fear, because now they were undeniably in a place where Bruce knew the rules. A place where people fought and died.

The adults rummaged around for makeshift weapons and then formed a protective line in front of the children. Bruce smashed a plaz-wood chair against the wall and handed out the broken legs.

They stood and waited.

Amid Level One emergency alarms the blast doors of the Star-liner Delta Destiny had automatically closed two weeks ago, safely sealing the two hundred thousand passengers and crew inside small airtight subdivisions of the colossal ship.

Following the safety drill they had practised at the start of the journey, the McLaren’s and their fellow passengers in sector 15-D-11 had broken out the emergency supplies from the compartments in the common room and waited for rescue. In the unlikely event of a major malfunction, rescue might take a few days, the safety video had said. But that was no problem, because with care, the rations should last for twenty days.

Time passed.

They kept themselves amused with games and shared the plans for their new lives as dark-age agricultural settlers on the History Planet of Tintagel. Three of the passengers had musical instruments with them and had formed an impromptu folk group, calling themselves the Gristwood Players.

But now, assuming that the all the other passengers on board were in the same situation, food must be running low everywhere, and according to Connie, the crazy woman from the air-duct, the people breaking down the doors were hungry enough to fight – and even to kill – for a bite to eat.

Ben fought to slow his breathing, and the prickly panicky feeling that had spread across his scalp and face lessened. He put a hand on the shoulder of his young son.

“Take the kids into the air duct, Harry,” he said.

“I want to stay with you, Dad. I can fight. I’m sixteen - and I’m taller than you.”

“I know – but I need you to take charge and get them away to somewhere safe.”

“Can’t you tell Amber to do it?”

Ben shook his head. “No - your sister isn’t old enough. Please don’t argue, son. Just do what I ask.”

A new series of blows had opened up a long horizontal fracture on the door. Prompted by her mother Megan, fourteen-year old Amber had already grabbed the rope hanging on the rear wall and pulled herself upwards to the metal grille just below the ceiling. She disappeared into the pitch-blackness of the ventilation duct. Harry crossed the room and grabbed the rope, looking over his shoulder at his father.

“Try and head for the front of the ship and upwards to the higher decks,” Megan said, pushing him up the rope. “See if you can get some help, but if not, just keep yourselves hidden. We’ll find you when it’s safe. Be careful. Don’t get lost. Connie says it’s like maze in there.”

The remaining children followed: the Tomasini twins, Jorge Ferguson with his older sister Lauren carrying a small baby, and three more toddlers from the other families berthed in the sub-sector. All were lifted up and pushed on by tearful parents whispering goodbyes and words of care.

As the grille clicked shut, a battered and misshapen section of common room door fell inwards and bounced onto the floor. A foul smelling draught of air rushed into the room. Outside, pale torch lights silhouetted a crowd of figures, and reflected on an assortment of metal weapons.

“You Settlers in there!” called a voice. “You don’t need to be afraid. We’re the rescue party!”

“Aye, that’s what you said to the McGregor’s,” shouted Crazy Connie, “before you stole their food and beat half of them to death.”

“The McGregor’s? How did you…? Well anyway, there has been some trouble I’ll grant you that,” came back the reply. The man’s accent was precise, aristocratic, and very English. “If you cause any trouble then be warned that we are prepared to use force to defend ourselves. But it doesn’t need to come to that.”

“Defend yourselves?” Bruce asked. “You’re the ones breaking the door down. What do you want anyway? We’re all OK here. We don’t need rescuing.”

“Look, here’s the situation,” the Englishman said. “The ships systems are all completely dead, everything except emergency life support, and there’s no sign of rescue. We’ve been breaking down the security doors, and getting people out, but there are thousands still trapped and starving.”

“Where are the Royal Marines?” Bruce asked.

“The military have mutinied. They’ve been shooting people and stealing all the food for themselves.”

Ben looked across at Bruce who returned the glance, shaking his head in disbelief.

The Englishman had moved closer to the opening.

“I’m with the History Planet staff. We’re gathering everyone together in one secure place and putting all the food into a central store. We have our own security people who will look after you, and we’ll make sure everyone is safe and gets fair rations from now until we’re rescued. It’s the only way you are going to survive – things are not going to go back to normal, not anytime soon.”

Unsure and doubtful, the Settlers made no reply. They’d had no information or any contact with the rest of the ship since the lock-down. Ben knew there were several thousand History Planet administration staff on board the ship as well as the tens of thousands of Settlers. But the Delta Destiny’s crew and the Royal Space Marines should surely be the ones taking charge?

A stronger light flicked on, shining into the room and blinding the defenders, who backed away into the darker interior.

“There are about twenty of them,” they heard the torch man report to his leader, “Some females.”

“Come on now, be reasonable in there,” called the Englishman. “Just come out and hand over your food. You’ll only end up getting hurt if you’re stupid enough to resist.”

Bruce took a step forward. “You’ll get no food from us,” he announced. “We’ll fight you, and win or lose, there’ll be fewer of you left to rob the next room full of poor souls that you find.”
Alistair looked as if he were about to speak. Bruce poked him with his stick.

Outside, there were sounds of muttering and movement. After a minute, the English voice spoke again.

“Well now, since you seem to be determined to make this difficult, here’s an idea. Appoint yourselves a champion to fight my best man. If you beat him, we leave you in peace. If not, we take whatever rations you have and you can join us - or not, just as you like.”

“A fight? To the death?” asked Bruce.

“If you like, yes,” came the reply. “But I think a submission or a knockout would probably suffice.”

Several of the intruders smaned, anticipating some sport, but Ben felt the tension inside the room drop appreciably. Not everybody would have to risk their lives today.

A figure carrying a heavy steel pipe squeezed through the hole in the door and straightened up, and up, until his head almost touched the unlit day-glow unit hanging from the ceiling. Ben and Bruce moved forward together, each gripping a leg from the broken chair.

Megan grabbed both of them by the arm. “Give them the food,” she said, calmly and quietly. “Even if this monster doesn’t kill you, he’ll hurt you badly, and if that happens we don’t have so much as a bandage, never mind a doctor.”

As the two brothers hesitated, terse conversations started up in the corridor. There was a whistle, a shout, and then the sound of running feet, moving away. The English voice spoke again: “Spieling! Get back out here. Change of plan.”

The big champion grunted, backed away, and disappeared through the hole in the door. It was suddenly dark and quiet again.

While the Settlers stood around unsure what to do next, Bruce ducked through the hole in door and disappeared, returning after only a few seconds.

“Bugger!” he said. “There’s a pack of Taurs coming our way - big brutes - Terraformers from the lower levels by the looks of them. I think they saw me.”

Ben froze as a massive tattooed arm reached in and grabbed his brother by the throat.